the daughters of the street begin
their journey in vibrancy,
pretending they hadn't been
afraid of their own voices.

the soles of their worn-out shoes
beat in rhythm on the soil
that breathes tulips and coughs dandelions.

some of them will be wishes,
objects of desire in the eyes of men
who look like they have lived
their whole lives in subway seats,
ready to strike.

and i thought i would stay in this place
of directions and dreams,
thinking i could pick one off the sidewalk
like a dropped penny.

they never keep the buildings up
long enough to rust,
rain doesn't stop anyone.

suddenly there are two of them
facing each other's weaknesses
and neither will give in.

she's up to her neck in
unrealistic expectations,
he is up to his in all his confidence.

the only difference
is doubt, splashing up to her nose,
trying to get into her head.

and when she looks in the mirror
all she sees is who her mother was
and who she wants her daughter to be.

my hands are tired from all the squeezing
i do when i'm alone,
trying to get every last drop of
anything they'll give me
when i know i deserve better things.

maybe i'll just walk to work
and see the flowers on the other side of the road.

i wish they'd toss me over there like a stone
or there was some crosswalk and a crowd
i could hide myself in
and pretend i am one of them.

there is only concrete here.
how can we grow anything in it?
yes, we have the water and sun,
but nowhere for our roots to stand.

it's getting crowded on this side of the street
they speak of throwing some into the river of cars
so we have more room for our feet.
oh, won't you let some of us cross
so we can cultivate
the flowers on the other side of the road
they're drooping under your shadow.

Where to begin
I have many starting lines in mind
This happens when, like an oncoming storm,
A poem has been on its way for too long
The little, cloud of emotion, words, phrases
Creativity and art
Have been bustling in the back of my brain
And it all starts to burs in different directions
Infiltrating my rationality
My time management
My ability to concentrate on you
Or on me
Or on your luggage
My belongings
The future

Yes, this poem has been coming for far too long.
Some of the starting lines that I have considered might take you by surprise
(as many good starting lines do, and even more bad ones)
One was, “I have a beautiful face”
And the poem would go something like this
I’ve been told that I have a beautiful face
And sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I can see snippets of what people call that beautiful face
I can see the eyes that certain boys have said are pretty
I can see the cheeks that are chubby and lovable
I can see the outline of a human being with golden hair
Too often in the shape of a birdsnest behind my head
I can see the outline of me, which is also an outline of you
Where you stop and I start
You are everywhere
Except in me

Noone will make you stronger than you are
Noone will make you something that you aren’t
You can be
You can talk
You can try your best to share

But it seems that
The sharing is and has an element of consequence
It comes at the right time
When things are stable, the world is spinning steadily enough for your wine glasses to sit on the table, maybe perching, but safe, on the wooden edge
It comes at a time when you know what to do each day, and you do it
It comes at a time when you’ve figured out what’s going on
That you think you know what’s going on so you’re able to function
It comes at a time when you have a lot
Not plastic, not time, not food, not wine
You just have a lot.
There’s no word for what it is that you have
Its not love, but it might be the ingredients
You have enough of you- enough projects about you that you’ve worked on
Enough soul and love that you have devoted to yourself and other things
Those are the best
Actually maybe they’re the only
It’s a process of breaking down walls
And then building up bricks

It's a process of letting me be
Letting me giggle
And smile
And bruise, sometimes
It wont be your fault when it happens
But bruises make me stronger
They make me less willing to break down the walls
So I’ll go at a better pace
Thank you- for all of it
Especially the little bruises

I hope that I make you think
In a different way
In a new way

I hope that you can appreciate the
Simultaneously
Happy grateful loving
Pensive questioning and uncertain
Being that is me

I hope that this poem
Or letter
Or essay
Or collection of misfit words

Helps you see
That there’s a lot to me

The most that I can do with it though
Is try
To do good

I can’t say what good will come from sharing with you
But I can say that I think some will

You’re like a fortress: you don’t need, frankly, you make it seem, quite a lot like you don’t even want.

But that’s impossible because even fortresses need food and water, repairs and most importantly people to walk in them, and care for them.

I wonder- no, I hope- that in some way
Our fleeting encounters
Help you in some way
Maybe I can provide a sounding board
A bit of a mirror
Or evens simple companionship

I just hope to help
As you go through you lone path through life
Like we all do every day
That’s all, in good conscience, that I can hope

I will not take from you
I refuse
I absolutely refuse
So I cannot hope for more
At least not now

I don't know why I told you all the things that I did
If I could go back and sensor it all
I probably would
Like why would I tell you about the pink bridge
The pink bridge meant a lot to me
For different reasons
That's a story
And likely a sad one
That you don't know
I didn't know what I was doing
With my sexuality
With that of others
I didn't know what was going on
Or where I was going
But I walked across the pink bridge

Its funny
(first know that whenever I’m writing what will be a harder-to-write-clause I euphemistically write it as, it’s funny)
I feel like I cant tell you the story of my life right now
We’re too in the middle,
Smack dab front row center
And I feel like there’s just enough of it
That it can easily start to spill over the brims of the fruit basket
I’ll miss parts
I’ll miss pieces
I don't want to be needy
Or overly affectionate
I’m done with those things
With being too nice

You like to talk
About a lot of things
And you’re pretty real
The problem is that
My reality is
Different
Its one of colors
Feelings art
Words on a page like this one
This is how I live

And I’m worried,
Because I don't know
If this is what I should be doing to make a living
Since I know that it’s how I live
And feel most alive

I can always write though
In my head walking home from work
On scraps at a coffeeshop
On the kitchen table before dinner

It will never go away
I will always hold onto it

So funny
Again when I was writing this
I thought that maybe I could share it with you.
The answer to that is blatantly no.

World War II, cold like misty days slaves.

The misty days whale swiftly commands the Korean shrimp.
Why does the whale steal our childhood?

All clouds hide stormy days,
Dark times, Japanese military prostitution.
Never hide a girl.
Lord, this is my destiny!
All my dead days, days without love.

Japanese military prostitution;
Disgust, desolation, and courage!
Endurance is the dark days of comfort women.
The small evil men calmly tortures my soul.
Forty times a day.

Why does the girl endure?

All girls fight cold men, old men and ***.
Wow, hate!
Rough days, stormy days smelly men swiftly torture my rainy days, dark days. Why?

Scared roughly like days without love only prostitution!

Die quietly old men.
Comfort women have faith!

Girls grow!

Why is the Japan as cold as a bronze statue crying in the rain?

© 2013 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.

in wild west there was a tribe,
of men fast as mountain river,
they believed in nature,they had vibe
and gaze that makes you shiver

Suddenly it's been deciced
that they that they become a prey
a white man came to take their land
but they stood in their way

indian only had a bow and an arrow
to fight for his own life
but white man brought some weapons
every one of them died

if you stood on red mountain
you could hear the wind hum a song
soft melody of indian flutes
that are gone for too long

As you gazed across the room,
My eyes caught your lingering stare,
To a woman who was not me,
Both not seeing, unaware.

Like a giddy school boy, I watched,
As she asked about your day,
Standing in disbelief,
Sensing this was wrong in every way.

My stomach hit the floor that day,
Followed closely by my heart,
Sadly not realizing,
This was only just the start.

Never enough, too much,
Imperfect in every way,
Wanting to run, scream, hide,
Like a coward, I choose only to stay.

Birthdays uncelebrated,
No tinsel on the tree,
This union isn't working,
The fault is always me.

Lousy cook, deplorable housekeeper,
No tiger in bed,
Tears stream down my face,
From words uttered & ones left unsaid.

Listen up 'gentle' men,
This shouldn't come as a surprise,
The true beauty of a woman,
Does not in fact lie between her thighs.

Love her laugh, her heart,
her smile,
Value these things,
& she may just stay awhile.

Don't win her over with baubles & bling,
court her with fancy dinners,
These mean nothing.

Write her a poem,
Leave her a letter,
These are the honey, gold, & nectar.

Moments shared, hands held,
A warm hug, a gentle touch,
These are the things of true value,
These are the things we all want so much.

Forgive me if my honesty
Isn't quite on trend,
But truth be told, what this world need more of,
Isn't lovers,
But ride or die friends.

They say we all die twice. The day we expire. And the day the last person who really knew us, says our name for the last time. Though I am but a single servant of fate in the most insignificant of ways, I strive to love what I can in this world of so few decent moments. I try to be true in the midst of our cosmic riptide that brought me to the edge of my own free breath. My time is but a instant. Here or there in this world of never ending time, I no longer believe in a linear existence. I am born and dead and young and old all within my own single space. Life is hard to comprehend when the squeeze of a trigger ends a life and even the truest form of love doesn't survive a fortnight. With this epiphany, I strive to only be a shadow because without acknowledgement of self, I neither live nor die. I am but spectral observer, budding anew at end of all things.

Integrity The quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness.

[Integrity] is a personal choice, an uncompromising and predictably consistent commitment to honor moral, ethical, spiritual and artistic values and principles.[1]
In ethics, integrity is regarded by many people as the honesty and truthfulness or accuracy of one's actions. Integrity can stand in opposition to hypocrisy,[2] in that judging with the standards of integrity involves regarding internal consistency as a virtue, and suggests that parties holding within themselves apparently conflicting values should account for the discrepancy or alter their beliefs.